Mayor No More
by i.wear.glasses
Summary: Private Investigator Amos Howard recieves some unfortunate news late one night. Now he's got a dead mayor on his hands and not much else. Who killed the beloved Tortimer? Why? A dark look at the future of Animal Crossing.
1. Late Night Call

**((I don't own Animal Crossing, blah blah blah. This is entirely fictitious, blah blah blah. Now on with the show.))**

* * *

My life was going along fine before all of this started. Work had become much more low key the past few years, a very welcome opportunity in my eyes. I may have only been 32, but my career had already peaked. I wasn't disappointed about this by any means. It was my choice, after all, to open up my own practice and take the jobs no one else wanted. Tailing an unfaithful spouse or uncovering small-scale drug rings may have been mundane jobs for another P.I., but I loved the stuff. The drama. The passion. It was all so intense, so real, and so much less disturbing than murder cases. It was like I was watching a bad soap opera from the front row.

The work always came, too. I started as a rookie detective in the police department six years ago under a veteran. The famed Sempronius Buford had been the top man for years. In fact, his work had inspired me to consider becoming a detective. Growing up in Caldwell, it was impossible to go without hearing his name. He was a celebrated hero in a city of mild violence and strange crime. Through his efforts, the crime rate decreased dramatically and the city started to get its act together. Working under Buford was a dream come true.

From the beginning of our time together, he made it clear that I was his last apprentice. On a number of occasions, he informed me that he had one year or one big job left in him, whichever came first. Fortunately for me, the big job came first. A maniacal serial killer began targeting high profile citizens of Caldwell. Clara Harris, a young and beautiful lounge singer; Schuyler Cromwell, a leader in the Animal Rights Movement; and John Whaley, a prominent chef, all came to an untimely end before the bastard was caught. In a week of madness and turmoil, I'd figured it all out. Turns out it wasn't just one killer, but two. I gained a great deal of fame when I cracked the case and almost single-handedly captured Sanford and Scarlett Oberlin, a pair of anthropomorphized mice. Buford resigned, I took his spot for a year, and then opened up my own private business.

Like I said, I didn't mind the small jobs. Every so often, I'd stray from the angry lovers or concerned parents and take on a homicide case, but nothing could prepare me for what I was about to be thrust into. In my short time as a champion detective, I came to hate late night phone calls. They didn't always wake me- I wasn't always asleep- but I hated them just the same. They meant trouble. They meant something big happened. They meant something was wrong, and it was so wrong that it couldn't wait until morning. On the flip side, they meant a nice paycheck, courtesy of the Caldwell Police Department.

This case started, as so many do, with one of those late night phone calls. Startled, I slammed the door to the medicine cabinet at the sound of the ringing. I clenched my teeth and looked into the mirror. My face was still young, still attractive, but it showed signs of wear. The beginnings of wrinkles had formed around my eyes and on my cheeks, and my face sported a semi-permanent five o'clock shadow. Even so, I had retained my boyish good looks, blonde hair, and blue eyes that helped launch my mild celebrity. I thought of how silly yet exciting it had been when I was photographed for the sleuthing journals. I didn't mind being appreciated for my looks.

I glanced down at the colorful pills in my hand. They were quickly becoming the only way I could get any sleep. I set them on the sink and left the bathroom. My phone was sitting on the nightstand in my bedroom.

"What is it this time, Fitz?" I asked immediately. I didn't need the caller ID to tell me it was Guy Fitzhugh. He was the only one to call me so late. Fitz was the lousy sack of shit they'd hired down at the police department to replace the fellow who'd replaced the fellow who'd replaced me. Apparently, a good detective was getting hard to find in this city, unless you wanted to pay big bucks for a private asshole like me, and this string of know-nothing deadbeats were all too often disturbing my unreliable sleeping habits.

"Please don't call me that, Detective Howard," the deep voice responded. The only difference between Detective Fitzhugh and the other jerks they'd hired to replace me down at the PD was that Fitz was an Animal. At least he was a border collie and not a mouse. It was hard for me to look at those shifty creatures the same since the Oberlin case. "We've got quite the mess out here, Amos. It looks... We've got... Well, it's a goddam mess, and we need you."

"Tell me what's going on," I said. So many of the problems I was phoned about were solved, at least temporarily, by advice. Either I told Fitz where to look or how to proceed. Whatever it was, I tried to keep it to the phone. I only went to a crime scene if I had to, and more and more that wasn't often.

"Not this time," Fitz replied, and I knew what he meant. "This is big. Biggest thing I've been involved with. Could be bigger than the Oberlin case."

My body turned cold. "What do you mean?" I asked calmly.

"What I mean," Fitz replied. "Is that I'm calling from the Mayor's office. Tortimer's dead."


	2. The Crime Scene

**((Animal Crossing belongs to Nintendo. Not me. I don't own it. Never have never will.))**

* * *

The rain started like the cliché it was. This city had a habit of creating such events. Weddings always happened on sunny days. Christmas always featured snow. A murder was always accompanied by rain. To others, it may have been picturesque, but to me it was more chilling than anything.

I talked to the chief of police for a moment before entering town hall. Ruel Willard was a nice fellow, a bit too optimistic for his position, but I'd always liked him. He gave me what little information he had. Tortimer was dead, his body removed from his carapace. He'd been dead about two hours before Mary Pandleton, a penguin who worked the night shift at the front desk, found him and called the police. Apparently, the Animal on duty during the time the mayor was murdered, a duck named Mary Pettigrew, hadn't recognized anything unusual during her shift.

After thanking Willard for the information, I proceeded into the building. It was a grand structure, the original Town Hall built in 2001. Caldwell grew around this old part of the city. On this side of town, it was easy to see how it could swell into something so large. The houses were quaint, charming. There were trees and flowers planted everywhere. The view of the ocean from any of the various ridges was breath-taking. And in the midst of it all was the original Nookington's, the beginnings of Caldwell's impressive financial district. The sign on the front of the building now read T. K. Nook, the premiere chain of department stores. The Thomas Nook family had built his single successful, community-based store into a worldwide leader in retail and in the process put Caldwell on the map.

Inside, the hall was just as lovely. Everything, even the ABD, was original. A cop led me back to Tortimer's office. As I entered, I noticed the door. Printed in fine gold and black print was "Thelonius Tortimer/ Distinguished Mayor of Caldwell/ Est. 2001". The old turtle had been mayor since the town's creation. From what I knew, he'd always been scatter brained and unusual. But the people of the city loved him and kept him in office anyway.

"Fitz," I greeted as I entered the room.

"It's Fitzhugh. Thanks for coming down." The dog was standing in the room, looking over a piece of paper. The stupid Animal still liked to do things by the book, following procedure to a 't'. I noticed how distant he looked, the fear and mortification in his eyes. Around him, three police officers performed their given tasks; taking photographs of the scene, dusting for prints, and taking down measurements.

"I've already talked to Willard," I informed him, taking a few steps into the room. The body looked worse than I could have expected. Before I had a chance to gag, I pulled a handkerchief out of one of the deep pockets of my trench coat. On the west end of the room, under a large picture window, an old brown and green turtle shell lay empty, clearly showing signs of forced entry. A trail of dark blood traveled from the shell to a withered and badly maimed body behind the large oak desk in the center of the room. Tortimer, the beloved old mayor of the city, lay in a pool of blood, his innards exposed. The plastron had been shattered, large shards of it in the body cavity, remnants surrounding it. His milky eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Duct tape wrapped around his mouth a number of times, keeping it tightly shut. Ropes were tied loosely around his wrists, but burn marks suggested that they had been much tighter. Deep cuts had been made on his face, arms, and legs. Whatever had happened during the mayor's last moments wasn't pretty.

"What have you got?" I asked, my stomach in a large knot. This was the worst murder scene I'd been on since the Oberlin case, and I was positive things could only get worse.

"Not much, unfortunately," Fitz responded. "We've talked to the front desk employees, Mary Pettigrew and Mary Pandleton. They were the only other employees here, and they don't have much to say. We've determined the probable cause of death as loss of blood due to numerous lacerations across the body and the removal of his (shell), but you know as well as I that they'll be doing an autopsy or two. The weapon that caused the wounds is missing, and so far we haven't located any valuable prints."

I clenched my teeth. "So what you're telling me is that we've got a dead mayor, and that's about it."

Fitz nodded. "That's... about it, sir."

"Don't call me sir," I involuntarily responded. "I'm Detective Amos Howard. My dad is sir."

"Sorry, sir- I mean, Amos."

I could have laughed at the ridiculous Animal that called himself a detective had the situation been less gruesome. I may have been young, but I had what it took to be a good detective. Smarts, balls, experience. The only thing Fitz seemed to have going for him was a tidy approach to work and a good relationship with Willard.

I continued to look over the room. It was large, and almost completely bare. Besides the desk and the window, there was a bar in the front corner, and a bookshelf covering the back wall, littered with books, papers, busts, knick-knacks. On the desk was very little. A stack of neat papers, a tiny laptop computer, an old style phone, and a desk lamp. My eyes scanned the entire thing. Realistically, I knew there had to be something there. No crime was ever truly perfect.

"Fitz, I'm going to need a copy of whatever reports get written up tonight, copies of those pictures your cop there is taking- any information collected, really- a list of every living being- human and Animal- that visited Town Hall today, and a list of anyone Tortimer has known associations with."

Fitz looked at me, a glum expression on his face. I had fired my only assistant about two years ago. I'd come to the realization that if the case was big enough, there was always someone around to do the bitch work. "It's Fitzhugh," he corrected. "And Tortimer was 242 years old," he finally replied.

"Then start with anyone he knew from Caldwell."

"He's been the only mayor of the city, Amos." Fitz looked defeated. "That's 155 years of people."

"Well then most of them should be dead," I told him. "Look, Fitz_hugh_, you said it yourself. This is the biggest case you've ever been involved with. It could be bigger than the Oberlin case. Well I'm here to tell you that this damn well better be the biggest. You're sitting on a local celebrity and piece of history. A _dead_ piece of history, with ropes on his wrists, duct tape over his mouth, and a missing, mutilated shell. You've got no leads and no weapon, and you're going to have to tell that to the people of Caldwell in just a few short hours." I started for the door, then turned back. "You know my fees. Call up Cecelia when you've got everything ready. I'll be waiting."

I left Fitzhugh in the same state I found him; confused and scared. Fortunately, I already had a good handle on the situation. A good night's sleep, even as a result of some pills, was in order.


End file.
